Advice to Manic Depressives (Poetry)

You can’t be ill too long — it’s not allowed,
so find yourself a cure or learn to cope,
and if your day is dark, the light suppressed;
you haven’t washed or eaten or got dressed;
feel suicidal — desperately depressed —
you’re not alone. The list is quite a crowd
but isolated, lost, and none dare hope

for further help — your quota has all gone,
no budget for unlimited support,
provided you’re not dangerously insane
and likely to do damage. Kill the pain
and suffer quietly — play the pill pot game —
it’s take the drugs or nothing from now on
and life is even grimmer than you thought.

You’re out of time — the deadline’s long been passed.
The present system doesn’t cater for
those who won’t get better right away —
malingerers who awkwardly outstay
appointments — seem too normal on the day.
No interest in your case, you’ve been re-classed —
your file is closed — you clingy, stressed-out bore!

You’re far from well but no one gives a damn,
no one worries, no one thinks at all...
You are invisible, you stay indoors —
stay in bed, blank out the household chores.
Who sees or hears you then? The world ignores
such casualties as if it was the plan
to save a few but let the others fall.

We’re all statistics — every one of us —
numbers on a spreadsheet, nothing more.
You rant and rave and protest — vent your spleen
but find you’re powerless, caught up between
what you believed was true — a pretty dream —
and how things really are. Why make a fuss?
Just take a pill and lock and bolt the door.